


Canvas Sky

by candybrainedquack



Category: The Evil Within (Video Game)
Genre: Death, Fluff and Angst, Horror, Humor, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Oral Sex, Self-Harm like tendencies (Not graphic), Sex, Stefano is nice to You, You are Joseph
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:47:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22678954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candybrainedquack/pseuds/candybrainedquack
Summary: Just "You" and Stefano hanging out in Union pre-TEW2 ;)
Relationships: Joseph Oda/Stefano Valentini
Kudos: 4





	Canvas Sky

You are comfortably seated alone in a corner of the diner where you had just spent an evening performing. Your mind at rest as you appear to stare intently into your drink. That is until you notice a well-dressed man standing right beside you, speaking to you even. Your head turns to address him although your mind barely processing what he had just uttered. It was a music theory-jargon heavy criticism on your prior piano performance. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t quite get all that.” Playing the piano was not something you always knew. You simply picked it up upon arriving in Union. Ever since, you often hear musical pieces playing in the distance although nobody else ever notices. After picking up a few jazz chords, you find your fingers dancing along, continuing the tune you have in mind. They say this place fleshes out hidden talents, but it only seems to bring confusion to you. Nonetheless, your newfound gift had proved decent enough to please the dining crowd in this humble establishment, at least, most of them.

“Oh, what a shame.” The man had positioned himself on the seat across your table, looking mildly disappointed that his well-contrived knife’s throw had flown right over its target.

“But I get what you mean. I’m an amateur at most.” Still, you aren’t going to take the unsolicited critique lying down. “So, how does being stereoblind affect your work?’ 

“Excuse me?” He clasps his gloved hands together on the table.

“I know who you are and what you do.”

He raises his eyebrow prompting you to explain your somewhat incriminating statement. 

“Stefano Valentino. You were an artist, back in Krimson City. Didn’t think I would find anyone I recognize here. Though I may not have met you personally before, or have I? Or was it the news?” You try to recall an article on the Krimson City Post but you can only catch the whiff of newspapers.

“It is Valentini,” he corrects you, much to his annoyance. “Here, my profession remains as an artist, of sorts. And no, I haven’t had the pleasure of making your acquaintance. Has your memory always been this unkind to you?” You realize he has your drink in his hand.

“I actually… don’t remember much about who I was”. You just woke up in Union one day with a welcoming pamphlet offering little explanation and a commonplace job assigned to you. Apparently, you and everyone else here had joined a magic cult. Mingling around provided you with insight that each of them had a past they buried to find their way into Union. And that each of them had sought wisdom from a motivational speaker cum cult leader. 

While Theodore possesses a vehemently influential presence, you find that he is full of wishy-washy talk, devoid of any pertinent substance that would regard the bizarre phenomenon that is this make-believe town. Despite so, the citizens of Union seem content with roleplaying and carry on as though a world with borders is no different than a world without one.

“Hmm,” he leans back without taking his eye off you.

A rather vacant acknowledgement but you appreciate the gesture. Most people here would be quick to shrug your disconcerting amnesia off and steer the conversation towards happier topics.

“I take it that you ran into some kind of trouble in your artistic endeavours. Theodore must have had talked you well into this.” It is wrong of you to assume that that was the case, but you are feeling a little brave tonight on getting even with the artist who nit-picked at your skills. Pettiness aside, you do wonder what it had been like for him. 

“Pfft,” he threw his head to the side, one arm resting on the crest of the booth sofa. You try to glance behind the hair obscuring the other half of his face, but the curtain of hair does not budge.

“An artist welcomes fresh new perspectives every now and then. I take pride in challenging myself to greater limits,” his thin lips curve to a smug dimpled smile. 

“Well, I am not here by choice. Or at least, I don’t remember agreeing to this.”

“Why, you should be glad now that you’re here. These are exciting times, offering absurdly delightful opportunities,” he winks at you, although technically it was a blink.

“No. Everything about this is wrong.” Your voice drops low. “Listen, you’re a smart guy. Haven’t you figured out this place is a lie? There are people running the stage behind the scenes. I dare say some are living right amongst us. I can hear it all through these walls, they call themselves Mobi—"

Your sentence was cut short by Stefano’s sharp gesture. You would normally consider that rude, but you have a feeling he is the wiser this time round. You need to be careful. In fact, you had been quite hasty in trusting him, but you can’t stand that everyone is buying into this utopian farce. 

He twirls the half-empty drinking glass with his fingers. “And do these voices not warn you of a threat so formidable and beyond you? Simply knowing about it doesn’t mean there’s anything you can do. No, we are powerless. Unless…”

That last bit of his sentence was drowned out by the start of the next performers’ gig; a band playing 30s jazz music that has vocals. 

But you could make out his words. He knows something. 

You try to chat with him for a bit longer. Just some small friendly talk such as what he’s been up to here at this diner and then exchanging contacts.

Eventually, he raises his voice. “Let’s see each other again sometime. It’s getting boring here.”

You guess it is either the music or that he is exhausted from fidgeting between his many model-like poses on the dining sofa.

“Alright,” you agree. 

He grins. “I’ll show you how to have a real good time around here.”

\-----------

You had agreed to hang out with Stefano with the intention of gaining information on the taboo subject that’s been bothering you, but every time you bring it up, he delicately ushers it away. By the third meet-up, he had leaned over to kiss you and so, you got the message loud and clear; you are dating him.

You’ve made a mental checklist of a few dates and details you found to be peculiar:

-One of the jobs he takes up requires him to photograph certain sites and landmarks in Union. He spends a ridiculous amount of time wandering about trying to capture the surrounding environments from the most engaging perspective. And he drags you along with him. It is as though he is an architect, surveying every corner of this town intricately making landscaping plans in his head. The photographs were requested by the town council, although you don’t see much purpose in it. It’s not like there are tourists visiting this place. Everyone who ends up here stays. 

-His current art gallery show is a display of monochrome intimate close-up shots of a female model. The walls and floor of the gallery are washed with glowing white light. You learn that the woman in the photographs is a dancer who regularly performs in the Grand Theatre. When you compliment his work, he shrugs it off, declaring that you have yet to see his true potential unleashed and that he is simply waiting for the right season to come by.

-He has an art installation too. He had designed heavily detailed sculptures that mimic body parts and internal organ structures, alien and human alike, entwined with plant-like protrusions and crystalline mineral patterns. They are made from high-fired porcelain clay, using stoneware glazing techniques and melted glass, giving his pieces a vibrant pigmented finish. The sculptures are seamlessly adjoined to one other, appearing as a garden flourishing on the floor and walls of the chamber. When queried on the inspiration behind his work, he says the garden is being choked by a disease; it remains infertile, inhibited and incomplete; that is until he can get his hands on a certain very exclusive medium.

-Date ideas were mostly his and they had a lot to do with appreciation for the arts. Anything you suggest seems to tick him off in some way. It does not help that he has strongly informed opinions on nearly everything. You had insisted that he make some leeway for you and that the two of you should meet each other halfway when it comes to certain interests. With that in mind, he conceded to a game of snooker at the local bar, an idea he had initially shown displeasure over. Much to your dismay, he gave you an unbelievably hard time. It was not just that he was owning you round after round; he was behaving very suggestively throughout, making very _very_ indecent double entendres as onlookers stare in bewilderment.

-The first time he invited you over to his living quarters for a feast cooked up by him, you decided to impress him with your culinary skills too by preparing some Japanese cuisine, making dinner a potluck effort. Things went sour when he inclined you to give an honest judgement of his cooking; while the presentation was undoubtedly verbally and aesthetically pleasing, it was hard for you to swallow. The dishes which had names you couldn’t even pronounce, were too exotically bland for your unrefined palate. He proceeded to unprofessionally belittle your cooking, which led to a night of competitive squabbling and sulking. Evidently, the culinary arts are a sensitive subject for the both of you. “We should have ordered take-out pizza instead,” you delivered the final blow to his ego, expecting your relationship with him to end right there and then, but he recovered, eventually.

Who would have known that a passionate artist like him would fall for you, a simpleton who knew close to nothing about the arts; the kind of persons he would be quick to tag as “philistines”. You are certain that he is simply charmed by your good looks or perhaps, he does prefer philistines to be his date. All in all, he has a way of making you feel special. You can tell his feelings for you are genuine by the way he values your opinion. That and the way he holds you, as the both of you slow dance to the sound of cheesy romantic music of your choice.

\-----------

You find yourself in Stefano’s living quarters once more. But laying stark naked on his bed? This is the first for you.

He starts out by gently stroking all over you, easing whatever tension you had stored up in your body. His hands, clothed in fingerless gloves, explore the fields of pleasures within you with smooth mastery as your spine unwinds and curves erotically to the sound of his touch.

He does you so slowly and carefully as he would when working on a masterpiece. His tongue so hot and brashly pressed against yours. As your moans grow louder and unwavering in desire, his strokes pick up in a whirlwind, sending waves of pleasure rippling through every inch of your body.

Your hands, quivering and unsteady unlike his, found their way to his fly. “May I?” You pause to ask. He had his clothes kept on the entire time.

“ _Please_ , this isn’t the time to be polite,” he swiftly undoes himself and yanks you onto him.

There you lay, crouched, sucking him. You watch him as he squirms under you. His breathing in hitches and his normally neatly styled hair dishevelled, revealing the obsidian black prosthetic eye embedded in the scarred half of his face.

You savour the taste of his arousal as it trickles down your throat. As he nears the edge, he pulls out and flips you under. Beads of pearls, string by string, splash across your trunk.

Stefano takes a moment to catch his breath before rolling over to the bedside table. You hear the drawer shuffling and before you know it, he is back hovering over you with a dagger in hand.

You watch him as he brushes the cold flat side of the dagger onto your skin as if he were spreading butter on bread. Its twisted shape picking up dribbles of ejaculate as he twirls it over repeatedly. His face has a look of intent and aroused focus; in admiration of something beyond you. You swear that if your organs were exposed, he would be plucking at them. But he has been careful in steering the sharp edge away from you.

“I wonder how an unsettling egotistical character such as yourself could pass that little test they make us all do.” you grin. Except, you don’t recall being screen-tested; you have only heard about it. You are uncertain if you would have even passed it yourself.

“Looks like Theodore’s got you well behaved,” you add. You can’t pretend that you haven’t noticed his disturbing penchant for severed body parts, whether animal taxidermies or sculptures. And also how agitated he gets whenever Theodore is around.

His face turns cold. His dagger presses deeper, only the pointed edge pricking into you. Not enough. You try to move his hand, but it stays still and firm.

“I don’t fuck with art,” he snarls, pulling away.

“But didn’t we just—”

“Precisely. You’re not art material.” Stefano chuckles.

You sigh and retreat under the blankets; face turned away from him.

“My, my, what’s gotten into you? Contracting the post-sex gloom so soon? My past lovers were never this difficult.” 

You feel gutted. He didn’t even have to use his dagger. You chuck the sheets aside and pounce away at him. 

“Cut me through. Fuck me over. I’m hollow,” you plead as you cling onto him.

Whilst startled at first, he resolves to shaking you off like dust, unamused.

You slump over with your back against the bed’s headboard. Despite all the good times you had in Union, your heart is weight down by heaviness. You grieve over a buried something you don’t even remember. It troubles you as much as you try to keep it in. And now, you have ruined a tender moment with Stefano and his sexy knife. You didn’t mean for your eyes to well up, but it is visibly showing.

“A-ah,” he waves his knife. “I see what you’re doing. This will not do.”

Stefano puts his dagger aside and turns off all the lamp lights to your relief. You find your sudden emotional outburst very embarrassing and would rather relish in the comforting privacy of night-time darkness.

Soon, your pupils adjusted. The room is cast with pale blue light spilling over from the window’s drapes. Stefano is standing by the bed, his back turned against you.

He sheds his clothing, layer by layer, folding each piece of clothing before gracefully dropping them to the plush floor. You watch as his lean figure gradually emerges before you. His face is not the only part of him that has been contoured by war. His body is an archive of scars. He seldom speaks of his tenure as a wartime photographer but when he does, it is as if he has lived ages longer than you when you are in fact around his age.

He comes over and sits in next you by the headboard, pulling you close to him. His flesh finally bare against yours. He cradles your face in his palms. You look deep into his eye. You admire how expressive that one eye can be; the way it rolled when you held the camera up for that one selfie. But now it looks kind and gentle; his neutral expression; which you wish he uses more of rather than the harsh appearance he wears when he is busy being obnoxious and spouting art allegories in unsuitable contexts.

Smilingly, he taps each side of your cheeks, one thumb and one cajoling word at a time. “Where has my dear’s love gone?”

You try to avoid his gaze. “I have been having these terrible dreams, a forgotten past that’s haunting me, visions of chaos and destruction. I fear that I would lose myself,” your voice trembles.

“Oh, you poor insufferable being.”

You wait eagerly for the part where he consoles you.

He clears his throat. “Fear is for philistines to live by,” he pauses to cleanse his tongue of the filthy word, “No-no-no, you, are better than that. Claim it. Enjoy it. Nightmares and horrors are far more thrilling than a sweet passing dream.”

“But...”

“But?” he echoes you.

“There’s also this place we’re in. Union. Nothing feels real, because it isn’t.”

Stefano slides his body behind yours and starts to gently massage your shoulder.

“Where are the airplanes that would soar through the skies; museums that showcase centuries worth of history; the vast endless oceans teeming with marine life?” There really should be more on the list of yours but your mind has begun to shrink with this shrunken world.

You can almost feel him trying his best effort to refrain from scoffing at you.

“Look at the bright side, we have limitless resources at our disposal and, and—,” he struggles to find the words, “—no evil billionaires, and have you tasted that sublime panacean coffee we have? Truly a surrealist centrepiece.” 

“No, Stefano. I need to know. I want to leave. I want to go home.” If only you knew where that is.

He pulls you down the bed so that the both of you lie facing next to each other.

“You are staying. We have everything here. I’m right here after all.” He holds your hand.

“You don’t understa—”

“ _Shhh_. Hush now mio caro. A good nocturne’s repose will clear your muddled mind. Rest well.”

He kisses your eyelids shut, sending you off to sleep.

Each time you drift in and out of slumber, between sleep and wake, you would find him next to you, in tranquil stillness.

\-----------

You are being chased down the hallway by a horrifying creature. You never know how it looks like because whenever you turn around, it starts to chase you from behind again. But when it does get hold of you, its melodious humming comes to a stop and you know you will be violently shredded to pieces.

The corridor before you shifts between that of a hospital’s and of anatomical hellscape as you race through it in stroboscopic flashes. The floors are wet with grime and blood, but they burn under your feet in juxtapose.

You run in silence; your throat seemingly drawn out from screaming but you hear your own voice echoing through the walls, along with the voices of others. Bygone conversations suspended in your tangled past.

Nonetheless, the nightmare haunts you no longer. Your blood boils with thrilling fortitude. ~~~~

You reach a dead end with nothing but an ornate mirror in sight. You approach it; the man appearing before you barely recognizable. Your fingers reach to the air around your eyes where your keepsake frames should be. Your pocket feels too light and empty. Your hands ache for the pages to pen down all you know. The detective in you yearns for the truth. The mirror cracks and flashes.

\-----------

Say, it's only a paper moon

Sailing over a cardboard sea

But it wouldn't be make-believe

If you believed in me

Yes, it's only a canvas sky

Hanging over a muslin tree

But it wouldn't be make-believe

If you believed in me

\--Billy Rose / E.Y. Harburg / Harold Arlen, 1933

\-----------

_Joseph?!… Joseph!_

“S-Stefano? Am I imagining voices again?”

_Well can your imagined voices do this; gli ananas sulle pizze sono merda._

“H-how are you doing this?”

Joseph could hear _his_ voice in his head. Stefano was nowhere near him. 

_Nevermind that. Where are you?!_

“Stefano, I… I followed a Mobius lead. And they got bullets deep into me. I have been careless.”

Sebastian would have been disappointed.

_You absolute boor! I have told you! Warned you! And you just left…_

Joseph could hear his frantic footsteps, his pained groans and him spewing curses in Italian.

“Stefano are you hurting? Stop whatever you’re doing. It’s pointless… Don’t let them find you.”

_Where are you now?_

“I’m somewhere they can’t see me. But…”

_I’ll find you._

“It’s too late, Stefano. They got me good. I can feel it already. I’m dying… Even if I made it out of here alive, there’s no escaping from them.

Stefano’s footsteps came to a stop. Joseph could hear him dropping to the ground. Stefano let out a soft defeated chuckle.

_So, how does it feel? Dying._

“Familiar.”

_I wish I was there with you._

He lamented. His voice plainly in distraught.

_Oh, what do I do… what can I do now?_

A moment of silence passed as Joseph drew deep pained breaths.

“Do what you do best... Sculpt me. Capture me.”

“Even if it’s just with your voice. I want to hear it. My flesh is yours.”

Stefano heeded his lover’s dying wish and begun to narrate the artistry he would transform him into. 

For a moment, Joseph had a glimpse into that beautiful mind of his. The artist was chiselling away at his flesh, setting off the beauty in him.

He could only listen as the artist’s passionate expression grew more intense and savage, descending into chaotic ramblings of a madman.

Joseph closed his eyes and felt himself fade away. Beauty, horror, sweet, bitter, all the same.

Just another dream he won’t remember ever having.

**Author's Note:**

> -Thank you for reading  
> -Don’t worry, Joseph is deathless. He’s lives on.  
> -That Italian bit is exactly what you think it is. This fic is half angst half crack tbh


End file.
